


Name one hero who is happy

by Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, But so is Draco Malfoy, First Time Bottoming, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry Potter is a hot mess, Homecoming, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sometimes things can't be fixed, Suicide Attempt, in second chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-30 05:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13943568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe/pseuds/Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe
Summary: Thirty-six hours.  A day and a half - about twenty of those sleeping - to know he wasn’t going to make it.He was standing in the middle of someone’s den, all brown shag and wood panelling, holding a red solo cup of what someone had said was red drink.  Thomas.  He thought it was Thomas’ house.  They had gone to school together.  A silver mylar banner above the fireplace offered a cheery Welcome Home.This was for him.  Or because of him?  He had been away for three years.He didn’t even recognize the music.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for: homophobia (light? can it be light?), derogatory language (just a little), and some graphic violence mentioned

Thirty-six hours.  A day and a half - about twenty of those sleeping - to know he wasn’t going to make it.  

 

He was standing in the middle of someone’s den, all brown shag and wood panelling, holding a red solo cup of what someone had said was _red drink_.  Thomas.  He thought it was Thomas’ house.  They had gone to school together. A silver mylar banner above the fireplace offered a cheery _Welcome Home_.  

 

This was for him.  Or because of him? He had been away for three years.  

 

He didn’t even recognized the music.

 

Harry touched his right front pocket again.  To check that the mobile was still there. Keys front left, wallet right back.  Mobile right front. He’d checked it five minutes ago. And five minutes before that.  And would in five minutes. Knowing that Granger - even if States away - was there. _Here_.  Only a text or call away.  But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t call.  Even if they’d spent the last 18 months close enough to be the same person at times.  And maybe still were.

 

 _Harry_ .  “Harry,” and Nev was suddenly in focus.  There in his blue cambric shirt and jeans, in the beard he’d somehow grown since he’d last seen him.   _Three years ago_ , he reminded himself.  “Do you remember Lavender?”  Harry turned towards a blond whose shirt was straining at the buttons.

 

“Har- _ry_ Potter.”  She dragged the name out, punctuated with a sparkly pink smile.  “It’s nice to see you again.”

 

“Er, you too.”  The last time he had seen her she had been retching out the side of Ron’s hatchback, the one he’d sold before going over.  So drunk she hadn’t realized that her jean miniskirt had ridden up so he and Abbott, careful thoughtful Abbott, had been able to see the fine hairs curling around the elastic of her underwear.  Wasn’t it funny, then, that this was what he associated with her. Not Honor Society or Cheerleading. But someone who couldn’t hold down the drinks she’d had. He supposed they’d been at some party.  But fuck if he could remember whose.

 

Looking at her now reminded him of Ron.  And that. That was what finally did it. “I’m sorry, but I need…” What he needed he never clarified, just pushing through the crowd, cup in hand, trying to find a way out.  When he finally found an egress, it was to a small weedy yard with a cracked patio. But the air was fresh, if thick with heat even at night. And he was free. For what it was worth.

 

The plastic cup had cracked in his hands.  

 

“Cigarette?”  Harry turned quickly to the left.  There were no lights in the back and the shadow against the vinyl siding of the house was briefly punctuated by the bright burn of a drag.  As the shadow lit another cigarette from his own. For a moment, a sharp chin and a pursed mouth were visible. “Go ahead,” they extended the thing, “Believe me, it’s more for me than you.  Who knows what you’ll do out here.” The other hand motioned towards the yard. “You might kick over a yard gnome.”

 

The very last place Harry had seen this evening going - if he’d thought about it at all - was to be mocked by Draco Malfoy.  Not the mocking, no. That was - had been - par for course. It was just that the last person he would have expected to see in Dean Thomas’ backyard was the arrogant bastard who had broken his nose Junior year.  

 

It was the first normal thing he’d experienced since separating from the military.

 

So he took the damn thing.  “Malfoy.”

 

“I won’t start deferring to you, Potter.  Now that you’re a _War Hero_ and all that.”  The appellation was dripping with sarcasm.  

 

“God, I really wish you wouldn’t.”  Harry took a hard drag of what turned out to be an unfiltered Marlboro.  “Jesus Christ, Malfoy,” he coughed as the smoke cauterized his lungs and throat.  “What the fuck are you smoking?”

 

Malfoy shrugged.  A small, cast off thing that highlighted his disinclination to explain himself.  He had always been an arrogant little shit.

 

In nose-cutting spite, Harry took another drag.  And then held it. Goddamnit, he was not going to cough again.  Not with Malfoy watching him in evident amusement, his own cigarette in the long fingers of his right hand.  Waiting. Harry held that gaze as he slowly - very slowly - exhaled. And then coughed as his body completely betrayed him.  Malfoy laughed and then said, “Let me show you how it’s done, Potter.” He brought the cigarette to his own lips, took a long drag and then released it.

 

It was so completely Malfoy that Harry couldn’t stop from laughing at him.  

 

“Oh, if you’re going to be an ass about it, I’ll take it back.”  He held out one hand, pale and bony at the wrist. Unlike Harry, he hadn’t quite grown into himself.  

 

“No take-backsies.” Harry said.  And then licked a stripe up the cigarette.  While maintaining eye contact with Malfoy. It had the consistency of rough tissue paper and tasted like shit.  

 

Malfoy made a disgusted face.  “Is that how you’re marking your territory these days?”  

 

“That’s on a need to know basis.”  Harry checked his pocket. The phone was still in the front right pocket.  Keys front left. Wallet behind. “Why are you out here, anyway?”

 

“Why _are you_ out here during your homecoming party?”

 

“I dunno.  Probably the same reason you are.”

 

“I doubt it.”

 

“Do you want to see a magic trick?”  

 

_(Do you want to see a magic trick, Potter?)_

 

Malfoy’s look was incredulous.  “Are you going to pull a rabbit out of your ass?”

 

“Not this time.  But I need another cigarette.”

 

“I am _not_ a dispenser, Potter.”

 

He had to bite back the _that’s not what I heard_.  Malfoy had - had had? - a reputation.  Talked about the way they talked about girls in locker rooms.  Because rampant homophobia somehow was the breeding ground of complete interest in what queers - Draco, for instance - got up to.  Once, over a shared fifth, Wood had told him that Malfoy had given him head once. After a game. _I’m not gay_ , he’d prefaced it.   _But I’ve never had anyone suck me off like he did_.   _Blew a nut in five seconds._  He’d given it more than a fleeting thought since then.  “Do you want to see this trick or not?”

 

_(Don’t be an asshat.  It’s just us, two M4s, and sand for days.  Do you want to see this trick or not?)_

 

Malfoy finished his smoke, flicking the end into what looked like a filthy kiddie pool, and then fished another one from the pack in his hip pocket.  He handed it, sighing, to Potter. “This had better be good.”

 

“Watch.”  Hoping that he didn’t fuck it up, Harry performed the sleight of hand he had practiced for hours in the humvee with Diggory.  

 

( _You’re not completely hopeless, Potter._ )

 

“Where is it?”  Malfoy sounded… surprised?  Maybe a little impressed. He was in short-sleeves, so there shouldn’t be an accusation of slipping it up his sleeve.  But this was Malfoy.

 

Harry did a quick pass and the cigarette was back.  He held it out with a slight flourish.

 

“How did you do that?”

 

“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”  It was funnier in his head.

 

Malfoy snorted.  “I’m not afraid of you, Potter.”  

 

( _I’m not worried, Harry.  I’ve got you at my back._ )

 

“Anyway,” Harry pushed the cigarette back at Malfoy.  “That’s the trick.” He moved towards the door and Malfoy caught his forearm with his fingers.  The right knuckles were painted with a fading, yellow bruise. It was that - and that alone - that stopped him.  It seemed strange, unfathomable that Draco Malfoy (of the McMansion, 16th birthday Maseratis, Cabo Malfoys) would have ever suffered the mark.  

 

It sort of made him, well, human.

 

“Show me how you did that.  I’m serious.” And he sounded serious, although Harry could only half make out his face in the darkness.  Just his hands.

 

And so - after checking for phone, wallet, cellphone - Harry spent the next hour or so teaching Draco Malfoy how to disappear a cigarette.  

 

If he hadn’t just come off his fourth tour with a medal for having lost his entire unit, it would have been the most surreal thing ever.

 

But it wasn’t even close.

 

*

 

“Still waiting for that phone call, eh?”  Harry, who had come inside for a Coke while his tank filled, looked up from his phone.  

 

It was Malfoy.  

 

He was in a grey jumpsuit with snaps all up the front and a pair of brown Timberland boots.  There was a little tag that said: _Malfoy_ on the front.  “Is this what the kids are wearing these days?”  Harry motioned towards the ensemble. “Sort of a _working man chic_?”

 

“Fuck off.”  Malfoy slung the words, looking down at Harry’s own outfit.  He thought the sweats might be clean, but wasn’t entirely sure.  The v-neck shirt was supposed to be an undershirt, but had been promoted.  The yellowish armpit stains were currently hidden by the unseasonably warm hoodie he was wearing, the zipper half-mast.  Because he hadn’t bothered to unpack yet - everything fit in a duffle - he was in his combat boots. “You’re not exactly the very model of a modern Major-General.”

 

“I’m just a civilian these days.”  But he’d made him laugh. Again. “But I’ll try to remember to put in a little effort for you.”  

 

“Yes, do.”  Malfoy moved around him, opening the cooler and pulling out a bottle of water.  When Harry turned towards the Bud Lite (ugh) clock on the wall, he saw that it was just a minute or two after noon.  Sixty hours.

 

He’d sort of lost track of time.  He check his phone, wallet, and keys.  And then pocketed the phone.

 

 _I said_.  “I said,” Malfoy was speaking, holding the bottle of water and deciding between a wide selection of candy bars, “That you can drive me to work.”

 

“I wasn’t aware I had offered.”  

 

“As compensation,” Malfoy gave him an arch look.  Harry, who had grown up between the wrong side of the tracks and a fist, was pretty sure that he’d had no idea what arch was until Malfoy defined it.  “For hurting my sensibilities.”

 

Harry raised his right arm and very obviously sniffed his armpit.  It wasn’t _that_ bad.  And then, “Alright.  I’ll meet you out front.”  And then it was one of those awkward moments where you thought you were splitting up and ended up walking out the door together.  Harry had a nice car. A black Chevy Camaro. Late ‘60s. It was the only thing he’d ever spent money on in his life.

 

( _So this is where your paychecks go_.)

 

“This is nice.”

 

“Just don’t spill anything in it,” Harry said, capping the gas tank and sliding into the driver’s side.  “Or I _will_ kill you.”

 

“Noted.”  Malfoy was tall, taller than Harry, and his legs spilled almost onto the dash.  He’d never bothered with a seat extender, owing to the fact that the car fit him like a glove.  It figured that Malfoy broke the mould.

 

“Where am I taking you?”

 

“To the Cemetery.”

 

“Godric’s?”  

 

He actually saw Malfoy’s eye roll from the corner of his eye.  There was only one cemetery in town. The one where they’d put Ron.   _You self-pitying fuck_.  “Oh,” Malfoy drawled.  “You meant the one where you’d deposited your self-respect.”  

 

If he’d had half a mind - and he really didn’t - Harry would have pulled to the side and dumped the fucker out on his ass.  But damned if it wasn’t funny. Malfoy seemed surprised when he laughed. But pleased, too. Harry noticed that he’d locked the door.  Probably in the likely event he was dumped on the side of the road.

 

“I’m going to guess you don’t get rides very often.”

 

“I usually take the Mercedes,” Malfoy said, looking down at his fingernails: short and pristine.  Fussy. “But it’s in the shop.” He popped the last letter.

 

“Alright.”  Harry took the left down Main, following the road outside of town and to a lot just inside the gates of St Godric’s.  He made a wide loop and parked in a space near the road, as far away from the other cars as he could possibly get and still be in the lot.

 

“Do you want to see a magic trick?”  Malfoy asked, making absolutely no move to exit the vehicle.

 

Harry cut the engine and turned towards him, his right leg moving enough that his knee was almost touching his thigh.  “Sure.”

 

“Just wait,” Malfoy said, reaching into his pocket.  “You’re going to love this one.” He smiled and Harry realized that his right eyetooth was slightly crooked.  It was so unexpected that he had the most irrational desire to reach out and trace it with the meat of his right pointer finger.  But he didn’t.

 

Malfoy flourished a pack of cigarettes - unfiltered Marlboros again - and then slowly peeled one out of the foil, the smell of tobacco filling the car.  He then very inexpertly disappeared the cigarette. Harry could see it, caught between the crease of his middle finger and his palm, but he didn’t say anything.  “ _Ta da_!”

 

Harry’s eyes fell on that crooked eyetooth.  And he realized that he was going to make it through the day.  He gave Malfoy the slow clap he was waiting for, Malfoy bowing under the applause.  “Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be here all week. And now, I make my escape.  Adieu.” He popped the door, all six-foot-something of him tumbling out to the tarmac. “See you at five, Potter.”  He turned back, “Don’t be late!”

 

Watching Malfoy walk away in his stupid grey jumpsuit, probably to sell drugs or whatever the fuck Malfoy did at St Godric’s, Harry found he was almost smiling.  

 

*

 

“I’m starving,” Malfoy said the moment he folded himself into the passenger seat.  He looked at Harry, who had yet to comment, while snapping his seatbelt. “You have a crease on your cheek.”  The statement was so full of _tsk_ that Harry looked in the rearview window to confirm it.  “God, you didn’t even shower did you?”

 

“Was I supposed to?”  As a point of fact, Harry had spent the last four and a half hours laying in bed before driving back to St Godric’s.  He couldn’t remember if he’d slept or not. He had pills for that, but hadn’t refilled them. The orange plastic container sat empty on his table.

 

“Alright,” Malfoy said on a long suffering sigh.  “When you exit the parking lot, take the _right_ on Route 1 and not the _left_.”  

 

“Where are we going?”  Not a _No._  Harry just went with it.  He had nothing better to do and a full tank of gas.  And it was strangely nice to have someone tell him what to do again.  With an impatient, sassy condescension. Without that starry look they all had or the _awe_ that disgusted him.  Like he had done something _important_ and _brave_.  Like he was some sort of a _hero_.  

 

( _Name one hero who was happy._

_Heracles?_

_Theseus?_

_Jason?_

_Bellerophon?_

_Harry Potter?_

_Very funny, assholes._

_You can’t._

_Where did you even get that book, Weasley?_

_The real question, Granger, is whether he still needs it._

_Philistines._

_They weren’t heroes, Weasley._

_Fuck right the fuck off, Boot._ )

 

 _Are you_.  “Are you even listening to me, Potter?”  Malfoy snapped his fingers near Harry’s face.  He came to so abruptly that the Camaro hit the rumble strip until Harry corrected.

 

“Malfoy, if you do that again I’ll break your fingers.”

 

“So tetchy.”  But he didn’t do it again.

 

Malfoy directed him to the Cokeworth Target.  Twenty miles outside of town in a strip mall with a grocery, a pharmacy, and a strip of fading vinyl that said _Best Pizza_.  It was, in fact, the best pizza to be had in the county.  When Harry exited the vehicle, Malfoy did not. “Don’t look,” he said through the glass and Harry leaned against the hood with his back to the vehicle.

 

“If you break anything, Malfoy--”

 

“I know, I know.”  Harry turned when the door opened to find Malfoy in the tightest pants he had ever seen on a civilian.  Not in a magazine. Harry was a little startled by how sharp and narrow he was. A strong breeze was likely to do him in.  Malfoy was just such a bitch that it wasn’t immediately obvious how small he was.

 

Harry wanted to ask how he’d managed to get out of his grey overalls without taking off his shoes, but he realized he really didn’t care.  The moment they entered the store, Malfoy moved them into the men’s restroom. The floor was still wet from a recent mopping and Malfoy checked all the stalls before locking them in.  “What are we doing here, Malfoy?”

 

“Shirt and hoodie.”  Malfoy held out his hand like Harry was actually going to comply.  Probably because he had done absolutely everything Malfoy had asked of him since they’d met each other again.  Because it was Malfoy - skinny with a crooked eyetooth - Harry shrugged and then peeled off first the hoodie and then the t-shirt.  “God, you stink. I’ll be right back.”

 

Harry turned on the taps - only cold on offer - and then pumped the liquid soap from the dispenser.  He already had a definitive farmer’s tan: his torso several shades lighter than his arms and neck. He washed mechanically, the liquid soap not a great sudser, before rinsing off and crouching shirtless beneath the air dryer.  The soap left a lingering floral scent. Chemical and fake. He looked like death warmed over when he caught a look at himself in the mirror.

 

Harry did not like mirrors.  He’d never done.

 

( _Don’t you dare move.  You stand there and see what trash looks like._ )

 

“Do I pass muster?”  Harry asked, turning to find Malfoy just staring at him.  He looked a bit like a deer in the headlights and for a moment Harry had the feeling that Malfoy was finally seeing _him_.  The reflected him.  The monster that wore Harry’s skin.  

 

“You’ll _do_.” Malfoy said in his waspish way, his face closing.  He had a pack of multi-colored briefs (Harry had refused to take off his pants and underwear), a pack of black undershirts, and a peach colored hoodie that said _home grown_.  He must have registered Harry’s skepticism as he decided to defend his choices.  “It’s the best I could do considering _normal people_ don’t wear hoodies in the middle of Summer.”

 

“Can I have my clothes back?”

 

“No.”  

 

“Malfoy”  He stood against the sink for a good while trying to figure out a plan of action, Malfoy leaning against the tiled wall, next to the fire box.  They just stared at each other. He’d lost weight in the past month and the jeans were looser on his hips than he was used to. “Give me back my shirt, Malfoy.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because,” and Malfoy looked nervously over his shoulder, “I threw them away.”

 

“You threw them--”

 

“And I poured a bottle of windshield washer fluid over them.  In case you were thinking of digging through the trash.”

 

“I can’t even believe you did that.”  He really couldn’t. And he could feel it rising in him.  Anger. Coming from somewhere beneath the canopy of numbness that was his constant companion.  At least these days. He had always had anger issues. The impulse to violence was always there, so close to the surface.  He looked at Malfoy and he thought about

 

( _the stippling of blood on Malfoy’s shirt.  Malfoy completely startled as he looked down and then the_ )

 

Like he was now.  Just beneath his arrogant veneer, the bony jut of his hip against the wall.  

 

“Don’t worry, I paid for the fluid.”  He was still holding out the pack of briefs, the black undershirts.  But now they were a shield.

 

Harry’s knuckles were white on the shiny china of the sink.  He was trembling.

 

And then he was running.  

 

*

 

Mornings now that he hadn’t refilled his pills went the same.  

 

He woke at dawn pulling his sheets and bedding to quarter-drop tightness.  He used the toilet and then set the coffee maker. He pulled out his cell phone, the cheap one he’d bought after his had died, and texted Granger.   _Here._  

 

And then he ran.  Usually until his legs shook and his chest hurt.  Sometimes until he vomited up the thin, watery stuff of whatever was left in him. Up to two hours now as his body acclimated to it.  He listened to dense, screaming something, his brain dislocated and calm. He showered afterward, sometimes, checking his phone. Finding - so far - the echoing _Here_.  

 

On the morning after he thought he would kill Malfoy, he noticed a speck of something on the bathroom linoleum.  And then spent four hours with a toothbrush working it over. Floor and tub and sink and toilet. Mirrors and lights and window.  The bleach burned the fine hairs of his nose, his eyes watered.

 

When he finally went outside.  To get something from the sub shop, it was almost 2.  And there was a plastic shopping bag on the steps of the trailer.

 

Inside were his hoodie and shirt, clean and smelling of lemons.  And a packet of briefs and black undershirts and a peach hoodie that said _home grown_.  There was no letter.

 

*

 

The next time he saw Malfoy was at a party at Hannah Abbott’s.  Harry hadn’t wanted to go, but if he didn’t go, if he wouldn’t go, they would talk amongst themselves.

 

( _I’m worried about Harry.  Did he say anything to you_ )

 

And so he was drinking the Rolling Rock Nev had insisted on.  Harry liked Abbott’s house. It was large and open. There was a pool in the back and he could pretend to be normal while people came and left around him.  

 

Malfoy was in the kitchen, washed out under the strong fluorescents, pressed against Pansy Parkinson

 

( _You are such an asshole, Potter.  No one likes you_ )

 

And in his stupid skinny jeans and a dark blue collared shirt.  He looked up as Harry was looking at him and neither of them looked away.  Harry felt small. Malfoy’s mouth had gone flat as he moved a clear cup to his mouth.  He was drinking something pink. Harry looked away. And then someone was tugging on his sleeve and Ginny Weasley was coming directly towards him.  Furious and frighteningly beautiful, a net of freckles on her golden skin, the right side of her hair shaved and the fading tattoo of a unicorn on the place where neck and shoulder met.

 

Things went quiet and Harry couldn’t move.  He _wouldn’t_.  He didn’t stop her, didn’t protect himself, when the flat of her hand cut across his jaw.  He could have easily broken the fine bones of her arm. The sound of the snap loud and real in the room.  This was right. Just.

 

( _You will never be anything but trash_ )

 

“You promised me,” she said, her voice shaking.  “You said you would bring him home. You _promised_.”  She was crying - he noticed that now - and her mascara was black soup that caught at the dam of her upper cheek.  He still loved her. Ginny who had Ron’s eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” he offered, reflexive, insufficient.  He stood there when she walked away, people melting out of the kitchen until it was only Harry.  And Malfoy.

 

“You really have a way with people,” Malfoy said.  

 

He laughed, cheek stinging.  Ginny had not checked herself.  Malfoy walked over, his pointer finger under Harry’s chin as he tilted his face towards the light.  “I think you’ll live though.” The pronouncement felt bigger than it was meant to be.

 

(I _t’s just a flesh wound, Potter._ )

 

“Poor you.”

 

*

 

He only woke up because Malfoy hit him on the hip with a rake.

 

“You didn’t need to camp out to see me again, Potter.”  Harry squinted against the sunshine. He could already feel the sunburn on his neck and arms.  “And I could have done without the vomit, actually.”

 

Coming up to his forearms, Harry realized that he had passed out in the pea soup of it.  Disgusting, but familiar. He felt like Grade C shit: mouth dry, head splitting. The bumps of his knuckles were raw and crusted with blood.  Jesus. He hoped he hadn’t actually hurt anyone. He didn’t really care about himself. Harry rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.  

 

“I can let you into the lavatory.  If you want to _clean up_.  But you have to take care of that.”  That also including an empty bottle of Four Roses.  He had no idea where he’d picked it up. He purposely never had alcohol around him.  For this reason.

 

After Malfoy pointed out a nearby hose, Harry let the cold water sluice the grass before running his hair under it.  The water stabbed his skin everywhere it touched. He took huge heaping mouthfuls of it though it tasted like vinyl. True to his word, Malfoy did let him into the lavatory.  “Why do you have the keys?”

 

“I just do.”  

 

He cleaned up the best he could, a strange sense of deja vu as Malfoy cut the sunlight standing at the door with his body.  He had pulled out a cigarette. He checked for his keys (yes), his wallet (yes), and phone (no). _Oh fuck_.  “Did you see my phone?”  

 

Malfoy shook his head.

 

Fear rose up his chest and into his throat.  He had to find it. He _had_ to.  Pushing past Malfoy, he walked back to the stretch of graves, very explicitly not looking at the one he’d passed out by.  He scanned the grass and the stones and walked around the possible route he could have taken. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there, let alone where he’d walked.   _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.  

 

The longer he looked the more frantic he became.  “Potter, Jesus,” Malfoy said, a very light hand on his arm.  “Just use mine. For whatever is so important.”

 

Malfoy handed his over, unlocking it with some complicated glyph, and Harry quickly typed in the number.   _I’m sorry.  I lost my phone.  Here._  He waited a moment, looking at the screen, and then _It’s okay.  Here_.

 

Everything that was tight in him released.  “Thank you.”

 

“C’mon,” Malfoy said, not welcoming the thanks. “Let’s get something to eat.”

 

Harry’s stomach roiled, but he ate half of the sandwich Malfoy brought out of wax wrapping.  It was turkey, which Harry didn’t particularly like, but he had learned to eat anything. “You know,” Malfoy said, handing his canteen of hot coffee to Harry, “I don’t know if anyone’s had the balls to tell you this, but you are a hot mess, Potter.”

 

( _Name one hero who was happy_.)

 

“I don’t know how--” He paused.  “I don’t know how to fix it.”

 

“Maybe you can’t,” Malfoy said, shrugging.  No one had said that to Harry before. Except Malfoy.  “There’s a reason super glue exists.” He smiled and Harry looked at that irregular eyetooth.  Looked for it. Malfoy gave him something like a real smile.

 

“Why are you even here?”  

 

“Because I thought you may have drowned in your own vomit.”

 

“No.  I mean here,” Harry motioned towards the rows and rows of neatly tended graves.  The willows and the detritus the living left behind.

 

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed.  “Maybe I like graveyards.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Malfoy played with the wax wrapper a bit as if regretting sharing it with Harry.  “It’s community service.”

 

“No shit!”  Harry was genuinely surprised.  

 

“I stole a car and… due to the privilege of being a Malfoy, I ended up here.”  Malfoy’s eyes turned overconfident again. “I am too pretty for prison. I would never survive.”

 

Harry checked the impulse for, _Yes_.  instead he asked, “Why did you do it?  Steal the car, I mean.”

 

“Why did you enlist?”

 

“I--I don’t remember.”  But he did. And Malfoy knew that.

 

“Touche.”

 

After another hour or two of searching - Malfoy getting his vm every time - Harry gave up on his phone.  He would hit up CVS for a temp until he could replace it. He walked over to the nearest gas station - four miles round trip - and brought back Snickers and Almond Joys and Twix because he didn’t know what Malfoy liked.  He felt like he owed him. And it was a good feeling. Like he was connected to something. Maybe something good.

 

“You need a life,” Malfoy said, although he broke off one of the chocolate wafers and ate it.  “You shouldn’t be out here with me.”

 

“Maybe I want to be.”

 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes.  “I can’t fix you, Potter.”

 

“I don’t expect you to.”

 

Malfoy sighed, running a hand through his hair.  It was fine and blonde, though damp at his forehead and nape of his neck.  “If we’re going to carry on like this--” And his tone made it sound odd. But inevitable.  “You have to pick me up by 7 o’clock. If I’m late, Moody won’t sign my slip. And I’m off at 5 exactly.”

 

“I can do that.”

 

*

 

Harry measured his Summer by Malfoy.  He saw him in the morning and in the evening, when he rolled down the passenger side window and put his thin forearm out the opening, fingers catching what breeze there could be.  

 

It wasn’t a secret, exactly.  It was just that they existed in the hours when no one else was around.

 

The people he had grown up with were afraid of him.  Afraid of breaking him. Afraid of his anger. If Malfoy was, he never showed it.  He called him a asshole and never thanked him for lunches and made Harry wait while hating the same from Harry.  

 

What they were afraid of, really, was that he was no longer _their_ Potter.

 

And by September, Harry knew he _wasn't_.  He couldn’t be.  He was Malfoy’s. It was like he only existed when he was with him.  It was ridiculously inappropriate. Tenuous at best. But it was the best he could do.

 

( _It’s nothing but Heres, Malfoy had scrolled and scrolled and scrolled.  What kind of friendship is based on a single word?_

_It’s not friendship.  We’re the same person._

_They hadn’t said anything for a long while.  Is there room for anything else?_

_I don’t know._ )

 

*

 

He hadn’t realized how they talked about Malfoy until he was at the beach.  It was just before they all dispersed to the places where they belonged. Someone had put together a giant bonfire and the second keg had already been tapped.  

 

They used words like _fag_ and _slut_ and Eloise Midgen said, _Everyone knows he’ll fuck anything that comes through the Cauldron._

 

She looked up at Harry then and smiled.  “Harry! How’s it going?”

 

He wondered what they said about him when he wasn’t around.  

 

( _That Harry Potter._   _He watched his best friend’s head disintegrate when a surprised haji fired a Russian RPG-7 through it._

 

 _Oh, I heard that he tore his latissimus dorsi carrying his Sgt back to the APC while he bled out into his DCUs.  He was too late, of course_.

 

_Of course.  Well, he did kill Ron Weasley._

 

 _Yes._ )

 

“You’re wrong,” he said to Eloise and the girl she had been talking to.  In a short jean skirt, skin webbed with stretch marks.

 

“I’m sorry?”  

 

“Malfoy is the best person I have ever known.”  He could see that Eloise’s cup had stopped halfway to her mouth, shocked.  The other girl stepped back. He couldn’t stop himself. “He’s better than any of you.”

 

“Al-alright, Harry.”  But the blood was rushing to his head, towards where the cushion of numbness was thinnest.  His fists were clenched, the bones cracking, and the calming slither of fury climbed down the bones of his spine.  

 

( _God, you’re scary when you’re angry, Harry._   _I think you’d kill even me_ )

 

“Harry,” Nev was near, but hesitant.  Staying out of range. “Harry, I’m sure she’s sorry.”  He turned to Eloise. “ _Aren’t you_?”

 

“Y-yes.”

 

He was trembling.  But it wasn’t fear. It was almost excitement.  And that was the scariest part. “ _Harry_ ,” there was a sure, firm hand on his wrist.  “Let’s just go, okay?”

 

It was Malfoy.  All limbs and gold in the bonfire.  “Breathe.” And Harry breathed as Malfoy tugged him away.  Completely, stupidly believing that Harry wouldn’t hurt him.  He _could_.  When they were far enough away, at the head of the trail where their cars were, Malfoy put his hands on Harry’s biceps.  Harry looked down where they were touching. “You’re a complete idiot.”

 

“I could have hurt you.”  He said. “I could have hurt you.”  He said it again because he wanted Malfoy to _know_ it.  That he was trash. A monster.  

 

“I know.”  And then Malfoy’s mouth was on his, all teeth and censure.  And heat. Harry kissed him back the same way, tasting the tobacco and whatever sweet drink he’d had.  He could break Malfoy - he was so slender - and he tried not to. His hand going to the small of his back, and pulling Malfoy as close as he could.  Until he could feel the thickness of Malfoy’s cock against his own, although they didn’t align. Not with Malfoy inches taller. “ _I know, I know_ …” Malfoy was saying as he anchored his hand in Harry’s hair.  Rocking his hips against Harry’s and Harry made a primitive sound in his throat.  In Malfoy’s throat. Everything that had wanted to fight, that _needed_ to fight, had turned to Malfoy.  

 

Malfoy walked him against the side of the Camaro.  Harry’s tongue in Malfoy’s mouth, finding the twisted eyetooth and licking it with his tongue.  The back door snapped open, Malfoy moving him enough that it _could_ open, and Harry was on his back, Malfoy pushing him in by his calves.  

 

Malfoy had his jeans undone and his hand on his cock.  He arched into the friction, grunting against Malfoy’s lips.  He was on fire and Malfoy was not gentle. His surprisingly strong hands kneaded and pulled while Harry’s hips and ass ground into the seat.  As he was careening towards release, something cracked and Malfoy said, _Breathe in_.  Harry did and took in the chemical release.  When he came, only moments later, it felt like the world had ripped in two.  Or that Harry had been ripped in half. _Lift your hips_ , and Harry did while Draco stripped off his jeans and the briefs Malfoy had bought him.  

 

And then Malfoy had a finger in his ass, slick with his own spit and Harry’s semen.  It was strange but not particularly painful, but when Malfoy hit something inside him his body sparkled while his heart throbbed.   _Oh, again_ , he cried out.  And Malfoy obliged.  Two fingers and then three, inside him.  

 

 _I’m going to take you, Harry_ , Malfoy said, smearing spit and semen and precum against his opened ass, and then pressing inside.  He was slow, never taking his eyes from Harry’s. There was an uncomfortable stretch at first and then it was good.  It was so good. Malfoy’s hands on his hips, thumbs running along his apollo’s belt, as he fucked into him. Sweat dripped onto his torso from Malfoy, his arms anchored between the headrest and the armrest of the back door.  

 

 _Oh_ , Malfoy said as his hips stuttered, and he came, wetness filling Harry’s ass.  Dribbling out as Malfoy continued to move. When he finally stopped, he collapsed on Harry’s chest, knocking the breath out of him.  His bony elbows pinching Harry’s skin. They laid that way for a very long time. Heedless of the fact that they were in the parking lot with people so close.  Maybe they were looking for Harry. But he didn’t think so.

 

*

 

Malfoy fucked him slowly in the morning, this time with the lube and condoms Harry had limpingly bought at the 24-hour CVS.  Taking him with his mouth and then with his cock. He had tried to be slow. To be gentle. But Harry had thrust upwards with his hips, using the balls of his feet to hold up his weight, and begged.  He couldn’t remember what he’d said afterward. That had worked on Malfoy. Only that Malfoy’s warm skin was against his chest. His hips fit within Harry’s hips. He smelled like sweat and tobacco. But that was alright, because Harry did, too.

 

*

 

When Harry woke up, Malfoy was gone.  But he could feel the sway of another person in the trailer.  And a curse at the accordion door that pretended at toilet modesty.  Harry closed his eyes when Malfoy exited, trying to give him some measure of privacy.  He was fussy about these things where Harry wasn’t. Where he probably would never be again.

 

“This place is a hovel, Potter.”  Malfoy was all ruffled acid. He was also completely naked with a knee on the edge of the platform that held the trailer’s only bed.  Harry smiled at him. Because he was. He was maybe happy. “I don’t know how you can live like this.”

 

“I pretend to live,” Harry said.  

 

Malfoy frowned at him as if he was an idiot.  “Everyone does, Potter.”

 

“Hand me my phone?”  

 

“I already texted Granger.”  Harry was surprised. Malfoy grinned, “I sent a _picture_.”  Harry threw his hands over his face.  Granger was so good at giving shit. He would never be able to dig himself out.  “She said: _Well, you’re clearly somewhere_.”

 

Harry reached for Malfoy’s hand and he condescended to let him have it.  “There is room.”

 

Malfoy was quiet for a while and Harry’s grip became tighter the longer he said nothing.  “It’s all true, you know. What they said about me.”

 

“Does it matter?”  Harry asked. It didn’t to him.  He had Malfoy _now_ , for as long as he’d let him, and that was enough.  “I’ve… I’ve done things. Things that will always live here,” he tapped his chest.  In the general proximity of his heart. “I can’t fix you, Malfoy. Anymore than you can fix me.  We just have to suck it up and drive on.” He held Malfoy’s eyes. “Until it’s true.”

 

“You need a job, Potter.”

 

Harry pulled him down quickly with an undignified squawk.  “But who would drive you everywhere?”

 

“I could get _anyone_ to do that for me.”

 

“Liar.”  Harry tickled him - rather ruthlessly - until they were fucking again in Harry’s trailer.

 

( _Name one hero who is happy.  You can’t._

_Harry Potter._

_If anyone could do it, it would be Harry._

_Maybe...  Maybe one day._ )

 

He was probably going to make it another day.

 

And maybe that was the trick.  


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's POV (because I couldn't quite set this down)
> 
> Warning for Homophobia and Attempted Suicide

Draco had been waiting for something to happen for a long time.

He didn’t know if he deserved it.  Or whether he’d earned it. He just knew that something had to change or he was going to be stuck in this backwater for the rest of his life.  Spending evenings on the oily bench at the Cauldron working his way around a cocktail (no beer for Draco Malfoy). One of the bouncers, Mark, would sometimes take him back to the one-bedroom over the bar under the pretense of weed.  And they would fuck. If Draco shaved his legs and laid on his stomach. Mark was in his mid-forties with more stomach than wit. But sometimes when he was deep in Draco’s bowels, muttering his _uggghhh_ and _yeahhh baby_ Draco would close his eyes. And pretend he was someone else.  

Someone other than Draco Malfoy who had graduated and had somehow been left behind.  He hadn’t applied for colleges. He couldn’t be bothered to get a job.

So he stole a car.  The rusted Chevy Reliant that Sluggy still drove to high school chemistry everyday.  He stole the car and drove it into the lake.

It had been _something_ , but not quite the something he thought it would be.

Now he crashed on Pansy’s pea green couch that smelled of mothballs.  And sometimes, if he was lucky, there were men like Mark.

Who called him baby.  But only at night.

 

*

 

When that thing Draco had been waiting for happened, he almost missed it.

He’d been _lucky_ that he’d gotten a soft judge, _lucky_ that everyone remembered the sad story of the Malfoys and the drunk driver, _lucky_ that his parole officer was married to Pansy’s sister, _lucky_ to get in with Moody at the cemetery. Everyone had been telling him how _lucky_ he was.  

He wasn’t entirely sure they knew what the word meant.

“Okay,” Pansy said, bringing the scent of Chanel (from a bottle she’d hoarded for years) with her from the toilet in the basement.  Where the pea green couch was. Neither of them particularly cared for the scent. But it was fancy. “No more Chopped,” she had the channel changer in her hand and flipped off the TV.  It was a shitty TV. The one the Parkinson's had rotated down to the basement and called the _boob tube_.  “You are getting off your skinny felon ass and coming with me.”

Mulish didn’t work with Pansy.  Particularly since she had been dumped by Blaise again.  It was an endless cycle of sex under the pretense of dating (in Draco’s honest opinion) until Blaise, the collegiate, went home and Pansy, the townie, stayed.  She was completely aware of the shittiness of the situation, but they only talked about it sideways. Pansy would bitch about Draco using her razors, but she was really bitching about Blaise.  Draco replaced the razors just in case they _weren’t_ talking about Blaise.  But Pansy never replaced Blaise.

Suffice it to say, she couldn’t go out without someone else.  And as she’d managed to alienate almost everyone else who was still in town, that left Draco.  They had a complicated, if rather strong, relationship. Pansy had sporked a boy in third grade who had fucked with Draco.  Draco had helped her cheat through school. It was complicated.

“Just put something on.  You don’t have to stay all night.  Just long enough for a beer or something.  You don’t even have to pay for it.” For whatever reason, this particular party had become a life or death issue with Pansy.  

When they arrived, Draco realized it was because Chang was there.  Chang who was Blaise’s other on/again/off/again. Who had transferred from the community college to the State College.  

By the balloons and sign, it was quickly apparent that it was a welcome home for Potter.  Draco had been Facebook stalking Potter for the past four months. Ever since he’d seen Ron Weasley’s obit.  Potter had only posted three things in the past year or so. A picture of a black Camaro about which he’d noted: _My baby_.  An unremarked shot of four pairs of sand colored boots.  And a blank post that had probably been mistakenly posted.  There wasn’t even a decent headshot. Just the generic grey outline of a person.

He circulated, his game face was well-practiced, and eventually ended up in Thomas’ backyard.  Desperately in need of a cigarette.

He was out there for a long time, wondering if he could jump the fence without breaking the rotten slats.  Doubtful. He wanted another drink, but didn’t want to go back inside. _I said we were opposite lovers said it from the beginning_ spilling out of the screen door along with Harry Potter.  Who looked like death _just_ warmed over.  Holding onto a broken plastic cup that was leaking beer.

There were a lot of things Draco remembered about Harry Potter.  That he was an asshole. That he was shit at school. That he hadn’t posted anything on FB in the past year.  But he did not remember being so, well, _built._  Like, the guy had put on about thirty pounds of muscle and had actually gone tall.  

He had no idea why he said it, stirring from the comfortable anonymity of Thomas’ backyard.  Or maybe he did. He had never seen anyone more in need of a cigarette in his life. “Cigarette?”

Potter hesitated a moment and then took it.  “Malfoy.”

“One and the same.”  Draco was a verbal slingshot.  After years of having to defend himself from the assholes he lived with.  “I won’t start deferring to you, Potter.  Now that you’re a _War Hero_ and all that.”

Surprisingly, Potter was grateful for it.  And then was choking smoke and fucks. “What the fuck are you smoking?”

He had no idea.  Whatever had been cheapest at the BP.  

Potter, ever competitive, took another drag, never breaking eye-contact.  Potter had always had very nice eyes: green and fringed with long lashes. That hadn’t changed.  And then he was coughing again. Draco thought they might be unfiltered. “Let me show you how it’s done, Potter.”  And then he did, grateful that he hadn’t ruined the effect. Showing weakness to Potter was not an option.

But Potter was laughing.   _Fucker_.  “Oh, if you’re going to be an ass about it, I’ll take it back,” Draco extended a hand, the one still healing from his run-in with a drunk redneck a few weeks back.  He’d missed headlining the local paper because he was fast.

Potter licked the goddamned cigarette.

He was clearly still a child.  “Is that how you’re marking your territory these days?”

Potter shrugged.  “That’s on a need to know basis.”  And then asked why he was out there.   _Because I’m sort of a social pariah now that I can’t backup my queer with money_.  Or _because I just can’t handle_ this.  But information was power, so he said, “I dunno.  Probably the same reason you are.”

There was a drawn out moment in Potter’s dead eyes.  He was really rather frightening. Or would be if Draco wasn’t at a low point.  When they lapsed into silence, Draco fully expected him to go back into the house.  He supposed he would follow a moment or two later and then walk back to the Parkinsons, where he could crawl back in through the unlocked basement window.  Or go to the Cauldron.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?”  Draco turned to look back at Potter, not entirely able to hide the surprise in his face.   _What the fuck?_  He made Potter work for another cigarette.  Most of Draco’s vices were costly.

And then Potter disappeared the cigarette.  Like. It was there. And then it wasn’t. Potter was a lot of things (that Draco could recall), but a wizard was not one of them.  “Where is it?”

“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”  He could tell Potter regretted saying that the moment it was out of his mouth.  He supposed it was the whole Weasley thing. People said _things_.  At the Diner two of the locals said: _I wonder if he’s going to be one of them who_ and then a forefinger thumb to the side of his head.  A minute later they were discussing the Memorial Day parade - of which Potter was going to be sitting on a red white and blue papier mache float surrounded by baton twirling and this year’s Homecoming Queen - as if they hadn’t just placed bets on his sanity.  Or lack thereof.

Malfoy snorted, though maybe he was, a little:  “I’m not afraid of you, Potter.”

When Potter made to leave, Draco had the sudden impulse to keep him.  Not sure why, but “Show me how you did that. I’m serious.”

A tick.  And then, “Alright.  But you have to come here,” he motioned towards the expanse of only slightly better lit brick he was leaning against.

Draco came over, near enough to see the shadow of the bugs drawn to the backlight on Potter’s face.  He went through the motions too quickly, and then slower and slower after Draco complained. Draco’s hands felt clumsy and he crushed a couple of cigarettes.  But he got it.

“You did it.” Potter said at the same time Draco said,

“I did it!” he was a little embarrassed at how excited he sounded.  Something he thought about later. After Potter had gone.

 

*

 

He found himself walking through the steps in his mind, flourish to sleight of hand to the _ta da_ , while the guy he’d pulled at the Cauldron sucked him off at the Motel 8 just outside of town.  The bedside light glinted off his balding patch every time he slid down.

 

*

 

He had no idea how he had talked himself into the ride with Potter.  Or why they were just sitting in the parking lot with about five minutes until he had to be back for community service.  “Do you want to see a magic trick?”

One thing about Potter was that when you had his attention you had his _complete_ attention.  Draco went through the steps of disappearing his cigarette and then ended with his _ta da_!  Potter gave him the slow clap that was his due, while Draco bowed.  

And then, because he had never been accused of _not_ having balls, he told Potter to pick him up.  

 

*

 

Potter was _actually there_ at 5.

It wasn’t like Draco felt responsible for him, per se, but more like everyone else seemed to pretend that he wasn’t running off the rails.

And he was definitely running off the rails.  If there was still track at all.

And the worst part about it?  Potter wasn’t even really an asshole.  Maybe he had been, but wasn’t anymore? It made it much easier when Draco thought he was.

Which was why he was digging through the trash at Target trying to find the t-shirt and hoodie he’d thrown in there.  Someone had squeezed several Starbucks cups on top of them. Along with the windshield wiper fluid, they were a mess.

The absolute worst part was seeing Weasley’s name on the tag of the hoodie.  Like someone had loved him enough to sew it right on there. _Property of R. Weasley_.

He’d had a bear.  He supposed he still _had_ a bear somewhere in the storage unit that held the shambles of his childhood.  But he’d had a bear. Bubo. No one remembered who had given it to him, but he had carried it everywhere.  When it had to be washed, he would sit in front of the dryer until Bubo was back in his arms. His mother had even put a little chair there, just for him to wait.

Bubo had a machine stitched _Draco Malfoy_ on his left paw.  

So Draco got it.  He really did.

 

*

 

He waited an hour for the bus back to town and then hoofed it to the Laundromat.  It was a place he knew well: the smell of fabric softener and warm rubber, the curling linoleum and the breeze that raging children blew up.  He exchanged a few bills for quarters and detergent. And then went back for spot cleaner.

 

*

 

The truth about his Mercedes was that Draco had had his license revoked for _at least_ two years.  At which time, if he were _lucky_ , the judge and his PO would decide if he was still a threat to society.

Which was why he found himself on the only bus line that went out near the cemetary at 5:30 in the morning.  Because it was never on time, although there was never anyone on it. He took it personally.

He was four minutes late.

The rules were that if you were late, there was no sign off.  No sign off meant that he had gone awol. Going awol meant a check up by his PO.  Which meant he might get lucky with the judge. But he might not.

Thankfully, Moody wasn’t entirely a hard ass.  He felt sorry for Draco. And Draco wasn’t above using that to his advantage.  With about two hours of sleep under his belt, he didn’t even have to play that card.  “Why, aren’t you the sorriest lookin’ thing I’ve ever seen, boy.”

One of the many things that grated Draco about Moody - outside of the gruff mentor vibe, the fact that he slept in the nice groundskeeper lodge all afternoon, and made Draco bring his own work gloves - was the fact that he always called him boy.

Sometimes Draco wondered if he did it to remind himself that Draco was.  He frequented the Cauldron, too.

“Rough night, eh?”  And then he put Draco out to clean the newer plots.  “Got a fresh one coming in today.”

Potter was passed out on the Weasley plot.  Next to Bilius and Arthur and Ron. For a long moment, Draco thought he was dead.  But when he prodded him in the hip Potter came up with a start.

In the moments between seeing Potter and nudging him with his rake, Draco shook with anger.  Because how _dare_ Potter die on his shift.  Because how _dare_ Potter give up.  When Draco really, really needed him to not give up.  If Potter couldn’t do it, how could anyone else even remotely hang on?

Draco was fairly good at self deception, but he was pressing delusional to say that he wasn’t into Potter.  Mess that he so obviously was. He didn't think either of them were in a good place.

But it seemed to be happening anyway.

When Potter looked at Draco the way he did, where his eyes fell to his mouth and then corrected, that was something.  It was something to Draco.

The cemetery lavatories were only ever open on the weekends.  But Draco, for obvious reasons, had the key. The stained glass window colored Potter in red and golds, the muscles of his shoulders bunching and stretching as he moved.  There weren’t any mirrors over the sink, so Draco watched him like a starving man. The sinew of his forearms and the narrow dip at the small of his back. His pants were too large for him and Draco imagined, quite easily, what he might find underneath.  Harry would have a beautiful ass.

Of course, he knew who he was (a small town queer with no prospects).  And he knew who Potter was (the person they put on papier mache floats).  So that was that.

Harry turned and blinked at Draco.  Or more specifically towards the light from outside.  He was so completely unselfconscious - or so completely uninterested - that he didn’t immediately put his shirt back on.  He did the thing that he where he checked all his pockets, probably OCD, and then asked, “Have you seen my phone?”

Because Draco had a serious hard on for Potter, he actually spent time trying to find it.  And then offered up (with a healthy dose of curiosity) his own phone. It was the most recent model of iPhone in a pink marbleized case.  There were rhinestones on the outside that spelled out _Queen of Fucking Everything_.  Pansy had found it somewhere.  And Draco loved it.

He really wasn’t expecting Potter to come back after he walked off.  He didn’t really know what to expect from him at all, really.

When he came back with what looked like an entire bag of candy bars his “ _I didn’t know what you like_ ,” was like the death knell on any illusion that he - Draco Malfoy - was going to walk out of this without getting hurt.  He didn’t think Potter knew why he was being nice to him. And Draco didn’t quite trust it.

But it seemed like he was thinking of staying around.  And that might be okay.

Ok.   _Really_ okay.

 

*

 

The next morning, Potter was waiting on the corner of Essex and Tudor where Draco had told him to meet him.  He hadn’t told Pansy anything about this and the last thing he wanted Potter to know was that he was sleeping on his friend’s couch.

Potter had the peach colored hoodie on although Draco already had a fine rime of sweat over his lip.  He leaned over to pop the door as soon as Draco got near. “Jesus, Potter.” He followed Draco’s eyes down to his chest.  He had the motions with his mouth right. The slight upturn of the fine muscles there. The smile just didn’t reach his eyes yet.  Not unless Draco startled it out of him. Which he liked doing.

“I just came back from the desert.  I just can’t get warm anymore.”

At 5pm, Potter’s Camaro was always waiting in the lot.  Potter was clean. Usually in one of the black undershirts Draco had bought him and smelling of some awful body wash.  He still needed a belt.

He expected that one day he would walk out and Potter wouldn’t be there.

 

*

 

The first time Draco met Harry Potter, he had a black eye and pants two sizes larger than he needed.  They were eleven years old. Potter lived with an Aunt and had just transferred from St Brutus’. Draco, who lived in a big white house on Elizabethan Court, had never met anyone with a black eye.  And he certainly had never been allowed near a boy from St Brutus’.

Potter had very green eyes, although the one was shot through with pooling blood.  He looked out at them - the twenty or so 6th graders - and stared them down. There was nothing shy about Potter.  Eleven year old Draco had been a little jealous of that confidence. But also curious.

Draco, who was unequivocally queer by this point and unable to hide it, thought this might be it.  Here was someone who understood what it was like to be on the outs. Someone he could befriend before word got out.  That Draco was different. That he couldn’t say anything without someone saying _gay_.  Or the perennially favorite: _homo_.  Yelled, coughed, whispered, added to his name on assignments and cards.  They’d gone around the room, everyone introducing themselves to Potter, and when they got to Draco, in his neat pink polo and creased khakis, he got out, “Hello, I’m Draco--” before someone in the back coughed, _gay._  “--Malfoy.”  

The teacher was furious.  But never actually did anything about it.

Potter didn’t laugh, not really.  The corner of his mouth firmed, though, as he looked at Draco.  Draco thought, _Here’s someone who understands being bullied._

He’d caught Potter in the lunch line, weaving and darting and trampling to get to him.  “Hey. I’m Draco Malfoy.”

“I know.”  Harry, at that point, had been skinny and small, not much larger than Draco himself.  But he felt larger, just standing next to him. “You’re in my class.”

And then Ron Weasley bustled over, freckled and bringing his _harrumpf_ that Draco was sure he’d learned from his mother, and said, “Come and sit with us, Harry.  You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.”

Draco and Ron Weasley did not get on.  They had a blood vendetta stemming from the time Weasley had glued Draco’s hair to the Thanksgiving diorama they were working on.  Weasley had been mortally offended by Draco’s pink shirt. Draco knew for a fact that Weasley ate Elmer’s glue at craft time.

Under the lens of hindsight, Draco knew that had he pushed, Potter would have sat with him.  But he’d backed down. He’d shrugged like it didn’t matter that Potter would sit with someone else.  And Potter had eaten with Weasley.

School never got easier, but he built his defenses.  He had Pansy. And he had his set downs.

During 11th grade, Draco and Potter had homeroom together.  Nott had dropped out and now they were at the same desk. One day, Potter turned to him and asked for help with a math problem.  Then it was a literature question that required close reading of _The Things They Carried_.  Potter was not particularly good at math.  And he was worse at reading for comprehension.  But he never asked Draco to do it for him. Just that he explain.  They talked, their chairs got closer and closer together in homeroom, until their thighs touched.  Potter invited him to a football game. Or two. Draco actually went, with Pansy. He didn’t even mind the looks.   _Potter had invited him_.

Everything changed after the weekend of the State Championship.  Potter came back and moved his chair as far away from Draco as possible.  The only looks he gave were glacial, a nerve ticking in his jaw. He was going out of his way, however, to not look.  

Draco had no idea what he had done.  

After last bell, Draco had shoved his books in his locker and steeled himself.  Goddamnit, he didn’t deserve to be treated this way. And he hated that he cared.   _So stupid, Draco._

Potter was surrounded by his hangers-on.  He wasn’t the epicenter, but he was always in the middle.  Although Pansy had advised against it - vehemently - Draco closed the distance.  “Potter.”

It took a moment to get his attention.  It was Weasley - the girl Weasley - who nudged him.  “I think Malfoy wants to talk to you.” The susurrus of mockery - Draco knew it well - went up, but Potter put up a hand, stepping away from them.  

“What do you want?”  He asked when he and Draco were near the drinking fountain.  Just across the hall but with Potter’s body between Draco and his friends.

“Is everything okay, er, between us?”  

“There is no _us_ , Malfoy.”  Potter just looked at him.  His green eyes hard. A drawn in breath.  An exhale. Everyone knew Potter had a temper.  “Did you suck Wood off?” Draco didn’t miss the question.  It wasn’t like Potter whispered it.

Draco’s stomach dropped.  Because he _knew_.

He had.  Wood had lived next door for most of Draco’s remembered life.  One day, he’d leant over the heavy wooden fence and asked Draco if he wanted to come over and use the pool.  At some point, he had pulled down the elastic waistband of his swim trunks and said, _Suck me off, Malfoy_.  And because he was bored, because he was curious, Draco had.  It didn’t mean anything, not really. “Yes,” Draco said narrowing his eyes.  “I fucking did it.”

“You are a --” Potter’s calm cracked, just a bit, and he ran a hand through his black curls.  “You’re a fucking slut, Malfoy.”

So Draco broke his nose.  He had three days expulsion and then detention for weeks.  Potter didn’t press charges.

Potter eventually started dating Ginny Weasley.  And Draco never went to another football game again.

 

*

 

“I’m dying.”  Complete non sequitur, but accurate.  The thermometer was in the mid-90s and with the humidity it was unbearably hot.  

Draco had his head on the back of the Camaro’s headrest.  There was no air-conditioning, for which he had complained bitterly, but Potter had installed a seat extender so his legs weren’t jumbled up against the dash anymore.  Draco was watching Potter himself through the fan of his lashes. He had been doing that a lot lately.

He _so_ had a hard on for Potter.  And he was fairly certain that Potter liked him back.  Although he would probably die before Potter realized he did.

Just the week before, Potter had convinced Draco to go into the City with him because he needed a new part for his washing machine.  And apparently to pick up an extender for his car. “Why don’t you ask your friends?” He’d asked and Potter had shrugged. Draco could tell he was embarrassed.

“I guess I thought you were my friend,” Potter said in that slightly confused, non-judgmental way he had.  “But you don’t have to go.”

“No,” quick, just in case, “I’ll come.”

“We can see that movie you want to see.”  Draco didn’t realize Potter had been listening.  And he _knew_ he didn’t have a computer to check.  He was probably the only person in the world who didn’t have a computer.

While Potter tooled around Sears pricing a washing machine, Draco wandered into the Sephora across the way.  He played with colors and glitter and didn’t notice Potter until he said, “Was I supposed to dress up for the movie?”  

“Oh…”  Draco couldn’t quite look Potter in the face, a smear of tint on his lips and gold glitter on his cheeks.  

“Here,” Potter shifted his bag to his left wrist and then turned Draco’s face with his right hand.  His hands were warm and rough. His nails had been ruthlessly cut to the nail bed, although neat. Potter rubbed his thumb along the line of Draco’s bottom lip, just underneath.  It was artless. Draco’s eyes fluttered upward and Potter said, “Obviously you missed the coloring inside the lines portion of primary. You look nice.”

And because they were in the middle of Sephora with people looking on and he thought Potter might _not_ actually move those few inches towards him and Draco _might_ , he said (with shaky asperity), “I always look nice, Potter.”  

“Oh yes,” Potter laughed, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking that you needed better body wash.”

“I do?”

“Have I mentioned that whatever you have smells awful.”

“Really?  What do you recommend, then?  I can’t tell the difference to be honest.”  Draco walked him over to the body bars. Potter randomly picked one up when Draco asked if he’d decided.  Draco switched it. Because it was an acne cleanser and not soap.

They caught an indie flick that would never come to the local AMC and afterward as they were driving back, Potter said, “I’m glad they found each other.”

Draco, who had been drowsing against the seatbelt and had a checkered weave on his cheek, had no idea what he was talking about.  Only that in the light from a car on the other side of the median, Potter had two flakes of glitter at the corner of his mouth.

And now they were driving into the sun.  And it wouldn’t rain. Draco was dying.

“Put your seatbelt on.”  And so, in the hot Camaro, Potter took a right when he should have taken a left and drove them very fast down the dirt roads that ran the County line.  They’d been oiled, so very little dust was kicked up. Instead, Draco extended his right arm out the window, letting his cupped hand dip and rise as if flying.

When they got to the Lake - which was really more of a pond - Potter said, “You do know how to swim, right?”

Draco rolled his eyes.

But they weren’t rolling when Potter jumped out of the car and pulled the old white v-neck t-shirt over his head, throwing it on the hood of the car.  His shoulder and back muscles were absolutely amazing. He shucked off his jeans with a, “Get your ass out of the car, Malfoy.” And yes, his ass was as beautiful as Draco had suspected.  His legs were lean and lightly furred, but the calf muscles were thickly muscled.

And then he took his underwear off.  

Draco was having heart palpitations.  He also wasn’t sure he could take his pants off without showing off the very _real_ hard on he had for Potter.  There were so many things he wanted to do with that ass.  Draco slowly got out of the car, tossing his shirt and waiting for Potter to jump into the lake before he hastily kicked off shoes and dragged his pants and underwear down his legs.  

It was the most awkward run to the lake ever.  But thankfully - hopefully? - unobserved. He was in the lake before Potter turned towards him.  

It was ice cold, for which he was very grateful.  

They didn’t say anything - well, Potter didn’t say anything - as they floated in the lake.  Draco wasn’t particularly into the seaweed, but it was mostly towards the shore. He did his best to float and hide his groin.  Which wasn’t entirely successful. Potter, who had absolutely no modesty whatsoever, was a lovely - and irritating - vignette on his back in the sun.  Eventually, when he was fairly certain he had himself under some control, he ventured further out. “It’s always so cold.”

“It’s fed from a spring,” Potter said, absently, turning to squint at where he thought Draco was.  “You’re going to burn to death.” He sounded concerned. Or confused. It was hard to tell with Potter.  Thinking about Potter was detrimental to Draco’s physical control. He shifted a bit more and ended up sort of listing awkwardly.  “You’re so skinny,” Potter said and Draco was definitely frowning. “You don’t even float, do you?”

“I’m _not_ skinny.”

“You are _so_ skinny, Malfoy.”  Potter rolled out the _so_.  

“I’m…svelte.”  That was much better than skinny.

“You’re skinny.  But that’s okay,” Potter said, and Draco could hear the seriousness in his voice.  “It suits you.” They were quiet for a bit. And then Potter said, “I like everything about you.”

“Oh?”  It didn’t sound even remotely composed.  In fact, Draco thought his voice had actually cracked.

Potter had let his legs drop until he was upright, the waves caused by his movement lapping at his skin and Draco.  “I’m so messed up. But I want to keep you. I mean,” Potter was suddenly nervous, biting his bottom lip. “If I didn’t just fuck up.”

“No,” Draco said, letting his own legs drop even if they were dragging against seaweed.  “No, you didn’t.”

They were moving towards each other.  They had been all Summer. “Do do you think you could, um, like me back?”

“I’m not going to check a box, Potter.”  They were closer now, Enough that Potter’s head cut off the sun to his face.  And it was hard to look Potter in the eye, droplets of water beading on his skin. Draco put left hand on the back of Potter’s neck and pulled his head closer.  “I could be convinced. There are a lot of incentives.”

“Oh yeah?”

Potter’s mouth, when Draco decided to taste it, was so warm.  He kissed like he paid attention: focused, intense, completely present.  He didn’t make any move to touch Draco beyond where they were connected at lips and Draco’s hand on the back of his neck.  Draco thought he might have never done this before. Draco. Kissing. Maybe anything. Outside of what this said about the girl Weasley, Draco didn’t push at all.  It was nice to not be pushed. To be kissing someone who was hot, who liked Draco Malfoy and not a body. Who he cared about.

They kissed for a long time, breathing and swallowing, and just being alive.

It felt like a win.

 

*

 

It finally happened at the end of August.  

Draco waited on the corner of Essex and Tudor - he still hadn’t told Potter he was sleeping on Pansy’s couch - and waited.  And waited. His phone told him that it was a quarter to seven, ten to seven, five _after_ seven.  Potter was not answering his phone.  “Motherfucker.”

Draco would have liked to say that he ran all the way to Potter’s trailer.  But he was in no way fit enough to run down the block, let alone the miles between Downtown and Potter.  So he walked. HIs PO had called four times and he let them all go to voicemail. He hoped Potter was worth being in violation of his parole.  Maybe. Probably.

Mostly he hoped that Potter was still alive.  As evidenced by the string of alternating angry and consoling words he’d trailed behind him.  People already thought he was trash. Now they probably thought he was crazy.

Draco, as always, didn’t really care.

By the time he got there it was almost 11 and Potter’s car was still out front.  He had to drag a cinder block over to look into the windows. In the crack between the curtains, he could just make out what he thought was either a table or a bed.  If he squinted enough, his eyes thought they made out a shape through the sunlight on glass. Hands on hips, Draco made circles on the astro-turf that made up his lawn.  Fucking Potter. He was actually fucking crying, backhanding it away, as he tried to _think_.  What the fuck should he do?  

“Ok, Draco, ok.  Try the door.” It was locked.  “Probably a good idea in this neighborhood.”  A hand through his hair. “What the fuck, Draco.  Focus.” Next he tried all the windows. Also locked.

He thought he might be able to punch through the glass, though.  People did it on TV all the time, how hard could it be, really? “Ok, yes.  I can do this.” His fist ricocheted off the surface radiating down every bone in his arm.  The force was enough to send him on his ass. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” _Something_ was wrong if Potter hadn’t heard that.

His neighbor did though.  A woman in a brown robe and slippers.  “What are you doing?” Draco sniffed, turning towards her.  “Oh, Jesus,” she said, going back into her trailer and coming out against with a ring of keys.

Potter was on the floor.

 

*

 

Pansy came up to drive him home.  “How long has this been going on?”  It was a measure of the complicated nature of their relationship that she didn’t sound judgy.  Just tired. She had just come off a pick-up shift at Target. She picked up as much as she could during the Summer.

“For a while.”  

She was quiet.  Draco smelled like vomit and he still couldn’t believe he’d put his finger down Potter’s throat.  “So, I’m not the best person to give advice. But do you think this is, uh, healthy?”

“That’s straying very close to judgmental, Pans.”

“Fair.  I just. I just worry about you sometimes.”

“I suppose someone has to.”

She pulled the key out of the ignition and locked the doors as soon as Draco reached for the handle.  “You know. You didn’t die when your parents did.” He had his hands on his thighs, clutching at the fabric there.  “You’re still alive. You are here.”

And then he was sobbing and Pansy held him, the stick shift between his hip and her stomach.  They were like that for a long time. Under the blanket of lawnmowers and ice cream trucks and sprinklers.  

 

*

 

He snuck out of Pansy’s in the middle of the night.  Because Potter had been transferred from the ER, he had snuck in through the ER and poked around the floors until he found him.  The others - Longbottom, the Weasleys - had gone. It was just Draco and Potter. _I’m the one he loves_.  The only one who understood that this wasn’t about Draco or the Weasleys.  It was Potter and the things he carried.

Because Draco knew demons. That they couldn’t be killed with alcohol or drugs or sex.  Not for want of trying.

He texted Granger before taking off his shoes.

“That was quite a trick, Potter,” he said, slotting himself against his bulk and the rail.  He _was_ skinny.  But they fit together well, sharp angles and all.  “Disappear a cigarette. Disappear a boy.”

Draco’s phone went off in the morning.  Bells and whistles and flashing lights. _Here._ And then,  _Thank you._

Potter was awake, his face in the crook of Draco’s neck, the thin stuff of his cheap blanket barely covering them both.  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh,” and Draco stroked his hair.  

 

*

 

Draco woke up tangled in pink sheets and sweat and Potter’s legs.  The trailer’s tiny air-conditioner barely threw out any air and he had no idea how Potter could live like this.  It still smelled faintly like the flooring Potter had put down. Even though he knew for a fact that Potter - _Harry_ \- had scrubbed the thing on his hands and knees.  Because Draco couldn’t look at the floor without seeing Potter, the thin gruel he brought up studded with half dissolved pills.  

And because Potter needed something to do.  When he wasn’t with Draco. Or with the psychologist the VA couldn’t get off their asses to get him.  There was a two year waiting list.

So Draco had dipped into the life insurance payout he had never touched and just paid for them outright.   _I’m doing this more for me than you_ , he’d snorted when Potter refused to take it.   _If you think this finger is going down your throat again, you’re sadly mistaken_.  He then told Potter where it _was_ going to go.

Tough love worked with Potter.  So did finding the right places to put his finger.

So Draco didn’t know how _they_ could live like this.  Two broken boys in a singlewide that Draco had moved into the day after they’d fucked for the first time.  Potter - _Harry_ \- called it making love.  But Draco knew they didn’t have to make love.  It was sort of already there.

 

*

 

“Potter, I’m going to be late.”  Draco could only make out cracks of light from beneath Potter’s fingers.  That smelled of motor oil and whatever he got up to in the backyard. He stumbled on the tree root he’d been complaining about for ages.  The one that they’d been waiting months for the tree guy to come out and fix. “If you get your shit on my scrubs, I’ll kill you.”

“Alright, alright.  You can look.” Draco’s not really scowling scowl turned upwards as he saw it.  The GTO Potter had been working on forever was finished.

“Oh my god, it’s purple!”

Potter snorted.  “Technically, it’s Plum Mist Poly.”

“I love it!”  Potter had his _I know_ smile on and Draco couldn’t even be bothered to give him shit for it.  He looked back, realizing that Potter had followed him and was now at his shoulder.  “It’s purple!”

“Yeah, Malfoy.  It’s purple.” With a hand on his hip for balance, Potter leaned over and popped the door.  “Now you can drive yourself around.” Draco had just had his license reinstated, for which he was of two minds.  Firstly: super excited. Secondly: disappointed. He knew that driving him around everywhere was the highlight of Potter’s life.

He pretended to give the car a thorough once over.  His forefinger tracing the rubber at the windows, the curve of the side mirrors, and the impossibly perfect chrome of the bumper.  “It’s not the right color, Potter.”

“What?”

Draco squinted, hand at his chin, his head turned to the side.  “I’m pretty sure I picked the aubergine.”

“Draco.  There is no aubergine in the factory paint for ‘67 GTOs.”  Potter was ridiculously patient. But only with Draco. Which was why he worked on cars at the shop and had someone else deal with the clients.  “The only purple was the Plum Mist Poly. Which you chose and we ordered.”

“No.  It’s not the right color.  I can’t drive it like this.” Draco said, turning towards Potter, “I’m going to be late.”

Potter’s brow, which had had a lot of practice with Draco, was up.  “Do you want to take the Camaro?”

“You… would let me take your Camaro?”

“Maybe.”  Potter seemed to be reconsidering it.  “I might like you enough. But I’m not sure.”

Draco walked back towards him, wrapping his arms around Potter’s neck.  “Maybe you should just take me. It _has_ been a _long time_ since I’ve been behind the wheel.”  He could tell he had him now. Potter’s green eyes were laughing.  Knowing.

“I did get an offer for it.  A nice offer.”

“You would _sell my car_?”

“You said yourself that it wasn’t the right color, Malfoy.”

“Well,” Draco turned to look back at the car - _his_ car - and tried (really hard) not to smile.  “I guess I could get used to the color.”

“Quite a hardship, I’m sure.”

“But let me sleep on it.  I’m going to be late.” Draco untangled himself from Potter and walked towards Potter’s Camaro.  Where his lunch was. And the navy fleece he needed because the ER was too cold. “Can I still drive your Camaro?”

“No.  But,” Potter let the engine roll over, his right arm over the seat back as he turned to look behind.  “I might let you drive part of the way to Granger’s.” Pause. “In your _aubergine_ GTO.”

“Oh!  That reminds me.”  Draco leaned out the window and snapped a quick picture of it.   _His_ _car_.  

 _It’s here!_  He quickly sent it to Granger - and Pansy - while Potter laughed at him.

Draco had been waiting for something to happen for a long time. 


End file.
